Essays

 

Unfocused

I sit on the end of the slide in the backyard when the sun has cleared the pine tree, and I let my eyes unfocus. Everything turns blurry, the blades of grass bleed into a blanket of green. Everything fades away, dulled by the heat and illusion.

A blade of grass twitches, and then another. My eyes seek the offender out of instinct, but it’s always too late. I focus to find nothing, no sign of change or cause. They unfocus and it happens again, a stream of nuisances which demand attention.

I drop to my knees and tear the grass. Soil, earwigs, beetles; I pull them up and toss them aside to search for the tranquility below. A patch of brown stretches before me and I sit back to watch. My eyes drift to peaceful inaccuracy, desperate for the stillness. More movement greets me. Earthworms slide, catch the light as they escape, pill bugs waddle, and each insect causes soil to shift, rise, fall.

I sit on the end of the slide in the backyard when the sun has cleared the pine tree, and I let my eyes unfocus. The world never stops, never stills, never allows me to breathe. Beneath false peace, movement lurks and bleeds through. The world refuses to still.

Heather Heyns

Heather Heyns is a freelance writer and native Southern Californian. She lives with her husband and two children, where she spends her time writing, drawing, and hiding from the previously mentioned children.

Her work can be found in Literary Orphans, Page & Spine, and Elbow Pads literary magazine.

Heather Heyns